


Alarums and Excursions

by Tammany



Series: The Sussex Downs [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Convenient break point, Drama, Ensemble - Freeform, Excitement, F/M, Gen, M/M, Possible series end, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 21:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20346640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: In which two men witness the power and majesty of Celestials from two different perspectives.In which John shows his failings, and his desires...and his inability to observe accurately, particularly all things pertaining to himself.In which accidents occur. Rescues are performed. Demons prove that it's not just Army Doctors carrying around some scars. And Angel indulges in comfort cooking, which seems about her speed.Now--this is not the only place this could go: there are plenty of hooks planted to carry it on beyond this point. But it has carried us through what I consider very nearly the full necessary set-up, if you accept that the smugglers do not really need much once you know they are smugglers. But we have completed an arc of introduction, revelation, and growth, and while much is unresolved I could quit here.I love your comments, even when I am too busy to comment properly in return. I READ it all--I just do sometimes have to choose whether to write my paid gigs and my fiction, or write responses, and too often I lean toward paid work and new stories.





	Alarums and Excursions

Black wings and white, turning in lazy circles over the ocean, round and round, ecstatic.

Two men watched, from high and low. Mycroft leaned against the rail of the upper veranda letting off the master bedroom, pressing into the wind off the ocean like a figurehead facing into the spray. John, below on the beach, huddled into a windbreaker, feeling conflicting hot and cold, sun and wind, sun-soaked sand and chill spray.

Two different men saw the angel and the demon fly…

It was not a good day.

It was a beautiful day—but that was different, John thought, as he sat on a boulder watching Rosie run in and out of the waves. He was struggling, torn in half by how he actually felt, and the man he knew he should be.

“Da, Da! Waves!" Rosie was riveted to the surge and spray of the ocean. He’d dressed her in little jersey shorts and a ruffled top that didn’t seem to fit properly, and made her snivel that there were “too many ruffles, Da. Not so many ruffles!”

Mary would have known what to do. John just did the best he could, trying to make sure his daughter was warm and fed and decent and covered, and that he put her in what looked like normal clothes for a normal little girl. He was careful. He’d heard other people over the years talking about too-feminine clothes, and not-sufficiently feminine clothes, and about “turning little girls into sex objects,” and conversely about “conditioning them to be…you know. Off.”

He imagined what Irene Adler would have to say about that. Not that Irene Adler was any sort of role model for a normal, sane, happy girl. But—

(Naked and lean, sleek and controlled, like a snake, her skin perfect…)

(She was not his type, he had told himself, as Sherlock fell into embarrassing bits in her presence, chittering with nerves and desire. The two of them lost in each other’s eyes, fascinated, bird and snake, and who was to say which was which?)

(Not his type. Flaunted herself. Broke the rules. Not his type…)

(Mary laughed in his deep soul, from which she had never left. “John, John—which were you most jealous of?”)

He made himself focus on Rosie.

He’d kept her in her little sneakers, fearing she’d cut her soles or burn her toes or hurt herself somehow. She was fearless, like her mother. (Like Sherlock.) Not like him.

He just wanted his Rosie to be a happy little girl…and even then he couldn’t get it right.

How was it that over and over he kept running aground? Injured, aching, lost, lonely, out of luck? He’d been feeling pretty optimistic this time last week. New practice to settle into. Adele seemed quite taken with him. He had a flat in central London for a song, thanks to Adair. The last time he’d been able to live so cheaply was with Sherlock, back before…everything. Before the Fall changed it all.

He forced himself out of his own head-space, the way far too many counselors had taught him to do. (You do yourself no favors, John… Self-destructive ideation, Mr. Watson… Quit brooding, you damn-fool wanker…) Instead he focused on Rosie.

She was small, and pretty, and fair, with curls. Sturdy and solid, rather than Mary’s elfin figure, though. A blend of mother and father. He kept brooding, testing, wondering—was she Mary’s kind of crazy or his, or had she dodged the bullet? And if she had come free of depression and narcissism by genetics, had the bad luck of being raised by John Hamish Watson undone all that good luck?

She ran after the waves, down and down—then spun on a dime, shrieking and laughing as the water turned and chased her back up the beach. In. Out. In. Out. Happy as the proverbial clam.

If only Sherlock would get over his miff and invite him to stay in the cottage. Him and Rosie. Sherlock could have the master bedroom, and John would take the smaller upstairs room, and Rosie could have the tiny little fairy-bedroom tucked under the stairs like a romantic version of Harry Potter’s cupboard. He’d get a job in one of the nearby towns. Rosie would go to school—well, anywhere, come to think about it, with the cost of housing eliminated.

It would be just like the old days, except perhaps a bit more staid and civil. The weird neighbors pretending to be angel and demon were not, at rock bottom, that much stranger than Mrs. Hudson had been. Or more dishonest than Mary, damn her beautiful blue eyes.

He still struggled with who he should hate from all that mess. Sherlock and Mary had always been adamant that he put himself in those situations, eyes far more open than he chose to admit. He preferred to point out that it’s not the fault of the victim when you start out lying.

Except they were right. Time after time, he found the least reliable, least stable people and circumstances, and then he found the wobble-point, and put all his faith and all his weight on it. And found himself back again, empty, wounded, alone…

Sherlock had invited that girl down. Janine. A friend of Mary’s. Maybe—who knew which of her former friends had ever been more than a cover story? Camouflage to improve her deception… For the past few years, every time John thought the woman he’d come to think of as the Irish Witch had gone, Sherlock would find some reason to invite her back.

“Why does she keep putting up with you,” John had grumbled more than once. “Given what you did to her at the start, I can’t imagine why she comes running when you call.”

“Given what I did to her, I have to bait the trap with very good bait—and call very, very nicely,” Sherlock had said, his voice odd in a way John could not evaluate. “It’s an exercise in deduction what will bring her back. The Proms work well—she has fun at the Proms. And a well-chosen evening at the theater. But she is independent, and free. She doesn’t need me.” He’d frowned, and muttered, “Nothing worse than an imbalanced equation.”

“Perhaps if you knocked her up? Babies are an impressive motivator.” John didn’t know why he said it…or what came next. “But, then, you’re already responsible for Rosie. I doubt she’d be interested in half a father.”

Sherlock had looked at him with cool precision, eyes sharp, and said, “Rosie can count on me, John. Can she count on you?”

Then, just as John finished gasping and gawping like a landed fish drowning in air, Sherlock stalked into the kitchen at Baker Street and began a bubble and squeak to go with dinner, with enough crashing and chopping and clatter to ensure the end of that conversation.

Sherlock had Janine up at the cottage and was asking her to stay, not John and Rosie. No doubt he and she were already playing house.

He risked a glance over his shoulder, to where two shadows seemed to twine behind one-way glass sliders…

It was then, of course, that Rosie went down with a wail, tripping over the rush of waters coming fast after her. She splashed down, hands out, knees down. The water flattened her, pushing her down into the surf—over her head, gushing into her clothes, then sucking her along as it began its retreat.

“Fuck.” He was up and racing down the sand, shouting.

“Hang on, Rosie, hang on! I’m coming!”

The water carried her as easily as it would a fish and chip wrapper. She was too light, too weak, unable to hold her place. The suck and draw were too strong, drawing her under as she flailed, screaming.

He’d run fast many times in his life. He’d never felt so slow. Too slow.

He could see he was going to fail. He could track what the next minutes and hours would look like. Wading in, screaming her name. Plunging into the surf, looking for her little body, unsure whether to stay atop, hoping she’d bob up, or dive over and over and risk not seeing her but hope to feel her—to catch her little hand. The first dive. The second. The fifth. Shouting each time he came up, wondering if Sherlock and Janine would see him from their window; if Mycroft or Lestrade were placed to spot them from above. Knowing his voice would not be heard over the distance and the waves and the echoless open air.

The sixth dive.

The eighth.

When do you give up? Or do you decide to go down until you join your daughter in the deeps and the swells?

And then the impossible happened. A miracle. The impossible.

Black wings against a pale blue sky. White wings following black. The skinny one landed between Rosie and the vast water beyond, squatting to catch her—hands wide, wings wide, a bastion against her rapid slide, a parapet wall to hold her safe. And when the waves came up and crashed against him, and knocked him flat with the child caught in his arms, the second came in, smaller, shorter, but strong, landing already in position to serve as anchor and foundation, to hold fast and firm.

And then they were all there, three men and a screaming child, the water boiling around them, each clinging to each to hold the child safe.

“Up! Crowley, up!” The woman’s voice was sharp and strong, with the tone of an officer. “I’ll anchor—you do the rest.”

And anchor she did—the pretty, plump blonde, feet sinking in to roiling sand up to her knees, wings blocking the surf, hands gripping firm. The skinny black-winged one gave a shout, and raised Rosie to his breast, grabbing John by one hand—

And they were free, gasping on the firm sand above the tide line.

“Rosie,” John cried. “Rosie.” And he reached out and grabbed her, checking each finger, each toe, testing her breathing, helping her lie to cough out the water she’d breathed down. “Rosie, Rosie, God, Rosie.” He was crying, wracked, with the fear and the relief both pounding him as the surf had mere seconds before.

“Shhhhh. He’s not hurting her, love. Shhhhh…”

He heard the gentle voice, and then an angrier one so broken and muffled the words were lost.

“It happens, Crowley. You know it happens. They’re human…”

John continued to check, detail by detail.

She was all right. She was fine.

“She needs warm, dry clothes,” the dark-winged demon said, his voice rusty and grating.

“I know,” John snapped, still fixated on how she moved, how she breathed, whether she was hurt in any way. “I’m a doctor.”

“She needs…”

“I’m her father. I’ll get her what she needs.”

It was reflex. It was intrinsically John. He would take care of his own.

It was at least a minute before he realized that there had been a crack of black wings, and a departure.

It was at least three minutes before the little blonde said, with rigid discipline, “He saved her life, you know. You could at least have said thank you.”

It was then he put enough together to realize the blonde had once had wings…and that light shone from her like a halo.

A halo shone from her, pure light.

He gulped, holding his daughter tight. He’d lost too much, he thought. It wasn’t his fault, but he’d lost too much.

“Thank you,” he said, forcing the words out.

He should, he supposed, have been saying “Oh, my God, you’re an angel!” Or “Oh, my God, she nearly died—thank you so much!” Or “You’re amazing!” Or asking what he and Rosie had done to be blessed with the sort of ethereal guardians who had never blessed anyone John knew of—not the men who’d fallen in Afghanistan, not the victims of the many villains Sherlock hunted, not Sherlock himself, when all was reckoned. Certainly they had never blessed John Watson’s drunk father, or his drunk sister, or his lying wife, or John Watson himself.

So he said, “I’ll take care of her, now.”

And the angel nodded, eyes cold, and opened her wings out again, and flew away, leaving John and Rosie on the sands just as Sherlock and Janine raced up, and Mycroft and Lestrade came behind with towels.

***

Mycroft would always remember watching the angel and the demon fly for the first time. They were beautiful—so beautiful. They circled like hawks on an upwind, borne by impossible currents that carried aerodynamically impossible bodies aloft into the afternoon sky.

He wondered if just anyone could see them—or if they’d paid him the compliment of revealing themselves to him and his.

“Come see, my dear,” he murmured, as he heard Lestrade come out onto the shaded veranda. “They’re flying.”

Lestrade came out and bent over the rail, elbows on the solid wood, hands under his chin. After far too long, he said, softly, “Fuuuuuuuck. Just… I mean…”

“Yes. Fuck seems about right.”

They chuckled.

“I saw Crowley change into a woman, this afternoon.” Lestrade sounded pensive.

“Did you?”

“He reminded me of Irene Adler. Or Sherlock with red hair. That skinny, sparse look. Like you and she and Sherlock and he were all of one line.”

“Look well—look well, oh wolves. We be of one blood, ye and I.”

“Huh?”

“Jungle Book. Kipling. Laws of the Jungle. Recognition of kin.”

“Are you kin?”

“Not so far as I know.”

“Still,” Lestrade said, “You have the look of each other, here and there. The demon and the Adler woman in particular.”

“A serpent to her core,” Mycroft said, amused.

“You’re reacting to this quite well,” Lestrade said.

Mycroft shrugged. “I was coming to a turning point regardless. Have been going through a turning point. I suppose—I suppose real angels and demons were less catastrophic than, say, losing you.”

Lestrade snorted, then said, “You’re dead gone on me, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Do you mind?”

“Not. Love it to bits, me.”

“Well, then. That’s all right.”

“I suppose it is,” Lestrade said, a smile blossoming on his face. He straightened and wrapped an arm around his lover’s waist, preparing to lead him back into the house.

It was then Mycroft saw the demon’s flight waver, and fail.

For a moment all he could think was that some dark God had struck the demon from the sky. Then, as he scanned the view, he saw it—the tiny child caught in the surf, John racing from far too far up the beach to succeed in saving her (and why-why-why did John always have to be a day late and a dollar short on every damned thing he did but trauma medicine?). And then the demon descending in a whirlwind of black feathers like flame, and behind him the angel, her wings spread wide , holding her place with the precision of a stunt flier.

It was too late for him or for Lestrade to perform the rescue, but they could provide support. “Towels,” he snapped. “The smallest t-shirts you can find. And have the mobile with you—we may need emergency medical.”

And then they were in motion, not needing to do more than shout a word here, point there. Two old, experienced partners accomplishing what they could, and not wasting time on what they could not. They were at the tail end of the parade, even so.

Mycroft got to see Crowley, face a mask of pain and anger and frustration, rocket up from the beach and away. He got to see the more terrifying vision of Angel say something to John that Mycroft was sure he agreed with completely—and could not bear the angel saying to poor, hapless John. And she, too, flew away.

His miracle of angels and demons, he thought, sadly. Well. Trust John to make a muck of it while doing his very best. Still, it would be hard to forgive the man for promptly destroying Mycroft’s wonder and delight…

And then they were there, all of them. Rosie was crying—the hiccupping sobs of a child scared straight for all time. It would be anyone’s question whether she would dare the waves again, poor chick. John was jittery and angry and glad and furious and lost-lost-lost. Sherlock was torn—between Janine and John and Rosie.

And the angel and the demon were not there.

“Best go up to the house,” Mycroft said, passing towels around to anyone who’d take one. Not that most of them needed a towel—just John and Rosie, really. But he’d carried them down. Let someone else carry them up. He pulled a t-shirt over Rosie, and knotted it to keep it from sliding off.

They marched together up the stairs and up the paths, until they came to the patio with the chairs and the fire pit.

“Greg, can you get a fire going? I’m going to arrange--”

“Nothing.” Angel’s voice was tart, and cool—but she was there, dressed in pale cream and tawny seersucker, her curls a tangle over her brow. She brought with her a tray filled too full for an ordinary human to carry, crammed with what looked like containers of tea and coffee and hot chocolate and flasks of brandy and whiskey and rum. “Sit. Catch your breath.” She put it all down on a table, and turned, stalking back into the house, her back straight and her movements fierce.

“Angel of the flaming sword,” Greg murmured. “Bet she kicks ass when she needs to.”

Janine, a few feet away, grinned. “Bet she likes it even better when Crowley kicks ass.”

“Well, she would,” Greg agreed, grinning.

Mycroft nodded, but left the group, going silently into his own home.

The sun was just low enough to make the house dim. The kitchen, however, glowed like amber, lit by a single light.

At the bar counter, Crowley sat huddled, wings out, towel over all. He cradled what looked like a hot rum toddy in his long fingers. He looked like Sherlock, Mycroft thought—Sherlock on the wrong end of something bad. Angel bustled in the kitchen beyond, warming something on the hob, wrapping something in a tea towel in a large basket.

None of it looked familiar.

With a brisk, no-nonsense gesture—almost a terse gesture—Angel produced a butter dish from midair. Then bowls, and spoons, and a tray beneath it all, and a trivet.

“There,” she said, and ladled a small amount of whatever was warming into a small tea cup. “Here—try some before I take it outside.”

Crowley looked up, face drawn. “Not hungry” His voice was small, and pettish, and worn out…much like Rosie the night she’d arrived: stretched too far and asked for more than she had to give.

“Shhh. All’s well, love. But you need something more than rum and honey and lemon juice. Try.”

“What is it?” The voice of a pouting child—who might refuse at any second.

Angel smiled. “Oyster stew. I’m told I do marvelous things with oysters.”

Something passed between them—something tender in a way Mycroft understood entirely.

Two old partners, familiar with each other, able to trust each other, with old jokes and old habits.

The demon took the cup, and sipped, gingerly—then sighed.

“Good, love?” the Angel asked.

The demon didn’t say yes—but the look on his face and the sudden stir of his wings said it all.

“Good,” the angel said, sounding quite pleased with herself. “I’ll take care of them, then—and then we can go home and I’ll give your wings a good preening.”

“Yours too.”

“Well—if you insist.” Then she looked at Mycroft. “I know he’s not your fault. You’re forgiven.”

“Still neighbors, then?” Mycroft said, a bit wistfully.

“Still neighbors.”

He nodded and said, as much to the demon as the angel, “I’m sorry about John. He’s not a bad man, or even a horrifically stupid one. But if he can get it wrong—from limping around thanks to a shoulder wound to marrying a spy and an assassin when he wanted a fifties housewife, well—he’ll find a way to get it wrong. He’s not bad. He’s even mostly good. But he is so very human in his brokenness.”

The demon met his gaze, and only then did Mycroft realize he’d lost his glasses somewhere during the rescue of the child. There was something in his face, his eyes, his body language. After a long, long moment, he shrugged.

“I could say he’s like me—but fucked if I will. Some things I don’t want to look at too close, myself. Just do what you can to protect the child? Unintended arseholery may not get you damned. But it ought to.”

The three were silent, each in his or her own way embracing that sad and ugly truth. Then Angel smiled, and collected the tray full of food—oyster stew and bread and butter and salad—and Crowley came behind, with his wings holding his towel like black tent over him, and Mycroft came behind.

And if the angel and demon seemed to fade into the evening, once the food was served, no one particularly noticed, and one particularly feared they’d seen the last of them, because somehow they had all become a family, odd though it was.

Mycroft smiled at his household, and drank down hot oyster stew like ambrosia, knowing he’d see that dark and light mandala of wings against the sky many times to come.


End file.
